Battlestar Galactica 3 - The Tombs Of Kobol

by Glen A. Larson

  Adama asked which of the three tunnels I'd choose. I pointed immediately to the one furthest away from the skeletons. And we've been wandering around in it ever since, seeing only bare walls within labyrinthine passageways. Adama says the tunnels were designed like this to keep intruders away from the main chambers and their many treasures. I am properly discouraged, I said.

  Adama and Apollo are now exploring corridors which lead from a splendid chamber. They've left me behind sitting on the replica of a golden throne where I leisurely may survey a surrounding panoply of statues, columns, food chests, and I don't know what else, all richly decorated and magnificent. If there were sufficient light in this chamber to generate reflections, these trappings would, I am sure, blind any observer. It is a room for the historian. Or the greedy. I am so overwhelmed I can't take it all in yet.

  We arrived here after traversing what seemed like twenty interlinked but mazelike passageways. The walls of most corridors were smooth-faced, their flatness interrupted only occasionally by scribbled messages in the old script. Adama said it would take up too much time to try to translate them now. They appeared to be messages from servants, probably functionaries who had volunteered to be sealed up in the tomb with their master. Many corridors slanted uphill or downhill, and there were narrow runnels at each side of the passage floor. They were another device intended for preservation and the avoidance of natural decay, draining off any water which might intrude upon the inside of the tomb. Windows angled strategically so they were not evident from the outside, at least at ground level, had been placed around the walls of the pyramid to allow for air to enter. Rainstorms, though rare, could dampen the tomb's inside.

  I asked Adama why they just didn't seal off everything. He said that went against their belief in the afterlife. The soul of the dead could not be sealed off completely. Whatever route was to be taken to the afterlife, there must be complete freedom of movement. Therefore, they tried to allow for all possibilities. In case the dead returned in some sort of corporeal form, they should not be completely entombed.

  Our light shining forward suddenly received a bright jewel-like reflection from something. We rushed forward and discovered this room and its glorious artifacts from the ancient times. Adama was happy at first, but his spirits declined when he realized that this could not possibly be the main burial chamber. Our quest was not over, after all.

  When I asked him what this room actually was, he pointed toward the ornate golden thrones, a pair of them at each wall of the chamber, and said that the trappings of the room suggested an ancient ceremony of the Lords. In their own residences, they celebrated their reigns at the end of every term they served. The Lord, with his or her consort, would occupy each throne during the four phases of the ritual. Each phase signified a point of the compass. The North pair of thrones would be occupied first, then the South, then East, then West. The occupying of all of them symbolized the unity of Kobol under the rule of the Lords.

  As Adama shined light on several artifacts, he supplied historical footnotes and answers to my queries. I noticed that many statues were duplicates, different only in the color of their stone and attendant decorations. Each face and pose were the same. Adama explained that these were all representations of the dead Lord. It was believed that the man's soul had to have receptacles, substitute bodies, in which to rest. Therefore, many statues of the Lord were placed around the tomb. I remarked how beautiful they were. He said, with some irony, that it was sad that such art was not even intended for human eyes. I pointed out some smears of whiteness near the lips of some statues. They appeared to be milk spots. How curious, I said. Not so curious, Adama answered, they probably were caused by milk. They may have been left over from another ritual by which the statue was anointed with milk around the lips. The marks indicated for the restless wandering soul places where it could take safe refuge in the long years of waiting for the afterlife.

  A silver chest was covered in bejewelled replicas of snakes. Inside the chest, Adama said, might be food or clothing, provided for the afterlife. If there were a sarcophagus nearby, such a chest might contain the viscera of the dead person. He explained, in detail I don't wish to reproduce here, how—during the embalming process—the organs of the corpse were removed and placed in such chests or jars for preservation, then dedicated to certain gods for protection. Only the heart, he said, was reinserted back into the body.

  I asked him how the people who fled from Kobol had evolved from an apparent polytheistic society to the monotheism we know now. He said the ancient gods developed as protectors of small areas and became less necessary when the tribes united, although they still existed here as lesser deities under the one true realized God. This subject made him a bit testy, and he dodged any further consideration of it by suggesting to Apollo that they should continue to search for the main burial chamber.

  So I sat down here after they left and began to ruminate on—wait, I hear footsteps. They're returning. All for now.

  ADAMA: Serina, we must be very near the sacred chambers now. I feel it.

  SERINA: And there you'll find the answer?

  ADAMA: I hope to.

  SERINA: How can you place so much hope on all of this? It's magnificent, I agree, but why have faith in a culture that—

  APOLLO: Serina, you should—

  SERINA: I'm not playing professional sceptic, I really want to know, Apollo. Why should we place so much faith in a culture that has, for all intents and purposes, died? All of these trappings, and all the beliefs they represent, no longer survive in our culture. To us their gods are dead, their belief in the afterlife is not ours, or even like ours. Why should their answer be any better than—

  ADAMA: You're thinking in terms of the religion, Serina. I'm looking for the wellspring to our culture. That's something I can have faith in.

  SERINA: But—

  ADAMA: Hold on a moment. Apollo, help me push this door open. This might be it. It's ajar.

  APOLLO: It's massive, the weight—

  ADAMA: Push. Now. Harder . . . There! Give me your torch.

  APOLLO: Father, it's—

  ADAMA: It is. This is the main part of the tomb. Will you look at it? I've never seen anything so—so—

  BALTAR: I know exactly how you feel . . . old friend.

  That last voice, Baltar's, was the last sound recorded before this recorder went on the fritz. I carried it all the way out of the tomb without knowing it was broken. It probably went into coma after hearing Baltar's wretched voice. Athena's fixed it for me, so I better review the events—my duty as a newswoman and all that. I'll backtrack a bit.

  Adama, Apollo, and I entered the lavish room which has proven to be the pyramid's main chamber. Adama believes we have a good chance of finding the Lord's sarcophagus the next time we go down into the tomb. Anyway, the main room was lovelier, more resplendent, flashier than that earlier, terribly impressive chamber. There were more statues in it, more golden chests, more inscriptions on the walls and pedestals. A massive statue of the Lord stands high between two pilasters. The flutings of each of these walled columns go upward in a snakelike design instead of the usual straight vertical grooves. A frieze running between the two pilasters depicts royal life—the lord hunting (a quite realistic dead animal impaled on a spear, with his happy lordship looking up at his prize in triumph), the lord inspecting fields of grain, the lord sitting at table with wife and numerous children enjoying what looks like a splendid banquet, plus several more scenes showing versions of this benevolent and serene ruler going about his regular tasks of governing benevolently and serenely. Murals of what appear to be peasant life adorn the corbeled ceiling in strips each devoted to a different subject—work, play, travel, food, honoring the Lord. On the opposite wall a narrow slitted window slants downward as if to cast its light upon a raised and decorated alabaster pedestal at the center of the chamber. Adama thinks the body of the Lord lies under this pedestal, but none of the curlicues and gargoyles around the edge of it
seem to serve as opening latches. He says we'll take instruments down with us next time, then figure out how to force the alabaster pedestal to reveal its secrets.

  We noticed all this, of course, after Baltar slipped out of the shadows, shocking us all out of several years of our lives. Adama was especially startled. He gasped Baltar's name, then stared at him for a long time. His body tensed. He must have been remembering all the burdens and frustrations which he'd endured because of Baltar's treason (if indeed he was a traitor, rather than the innocent dupe he now claims to be). Whatever reason impelled him, Adama suddenly lunged at Baltar. He looked crazed with anger. He grabbed Baltar and, putting his hands around the man's throat, clasped him in what appeared to be a death grip. Apollo hurtled after his father and tried to pull him off. I was only a few steps behind.

  "Father," Apollo said, "leave him to the Council."

  I don't know whether Apollo's words had a major effect or if sanity returned to Adama in a rush, but he released his hold on Baltar's neck abruptly. Baltar slumped against a column, his hands rubbing at his neck.

  "You might have killed me," he whined. "What is this madness?"

  "Madness?" Apollo said. "You need to ask—after selling out your people?"

  Baltar, looking quite furious, denied the charge. Adama had been spreading lies, he said. Apollo scoffed, and accused Baltar of the destruction of the twelve worlds.

  "What sane human being would do a thing like that? . . ." he said.

  What sane human being indeed, I wondered, looking into the man's piggish and off-balance eyes.

  What he told us then was either the bizarre concoction of a madman, a traitor who did not even know the meaning of the word "treason," or it was the truth. We are still attempting to figure that out.

  He professed shock that any aboard the Galactica could believe him guilty of so grave a crime. He had, after all, been a member of the Council of the Twelve, a political leader qualified to hold the Seal of the Lords. (He held up a medallion identical to Adama's. I realized then how he had been able to enter the tomb.) Spreading his hands imploringly, he claimed to be as much a victim as any of us. He had lost everything—his family, his people, his wealth—in the Cylon attack. Trapped between the President's battlestar and his own homeship, he had been captured by the enemy and taken away like an animal to face trial. He had been spared from execution, he said, to be a messenger informing us that more peaceful rulers now held sway in the Cylon Alliance worlds and that they were inclined to reject the policies of the previous leaders. They wanted an armistice, Baltar said. (At Baltar's plea for peace, Adama almost went into another rage.)

  "I've been to the Cylon seat of power and it is in chaos," Baltar said, his voice emotional with conviction. "Cylon forces are scattered, searching for your fleet." Whispering, as if Cylons could overhear him, he said that the route back to the Cylon Empire was barely defended, its forces were spread so thin. "One single battlestar could take control of the Empire and bring it to its knees," he said, the harsh murmur of his voice sounding like a file being drawn across a soft wood surface. He offered, as his plan, to lead us in the Galactica back through the enemy lines, supposedly as his prisoners but actually as an attack force. He positively oozed with delight at the idea that we could revenge the original Cylon sneak attack with a sneak attack of our own. (His delight in sneak attacks might just be proof he is a traitor, after all.) He said he had proof of his good intentions: he would arrange the immediate release of one of our officers taken prisoner—Lieutenant Starbuck.

  Apollo and I stared first at each other, then at Baltar. Starbuck was alive! It was the best news we'd heard in a long time, and it came from the worst possible source. Baltar explained that Starbuck would be landed on Kobol soon.

  Well, that about sums up what happened in the tomb. Adama is, of course, sceptical about Baltar's offer. Apollo's not sure, but he is willing to wait and see, especially if it means Starbuck is returned to us. Both of us are eager to see Starbuck again. We're not telling any of the others, just in case Baltar's springing some sort of trap. I do hope that man is telling the truth for once.

  Baltar is under guard but not imprisoned. When Adama told him the tomb might contain the secret to the whereabouts of the thirteenth tribe, Baltar sneered, saying that the stories surrounding the abandonment of Kobol were mere myth and legend.

  Adama seems obsessed. He is determined to search the tomb's central chamber thoroughly, sure that the key to the missing tribe is locked away somewhere there.

  We're back outside the tomb now, readying another mission to its interior. Adama wants to take our best instruments inside to aid the search. Frankly, I'm not sure he'll find anything. The pyramid appears to me to be nothing more, and nothing less, than a burial place. But, just in case the commander's right, I plan to be there for the next trip inside.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Lucifer missed Starbuck. The brash young lieutenant had brightened up an otherwise dreary mission, with his wonderful jokes and his marvelously competitive card-playing. Another couple of rounds and Lucifer might have even mastered that bizarre game. Or perhaps Starbuck would have always miraculously drawn just the lucky card he needed. Luck. What was it and how did an advanced computer get it?

  Lucifer gave the command chair a twirl. With no sound it spun around slowly. Sitting here, on the pedestal, high above the floor of the chamber, Lucifer realized he might just like commanding a ship of his own. He could function in the position just as comfortably as he now fit into Baltar's precious chair. Not only would he be a good commander, he wanted to be one very much. For once and all, he would like to overcome his servile programming and set himself on the path to leadership. Only Baltar stood in the way. And Baltar, playing his odd little game on Kobol, might never return. What was the man up to? Did he even have—

  His reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a centurion, who reported that there had as yet been no communication from Baltar.

  "A pity," Lucifer muttered, still in the disobedient mood of his meditation. "Perhaps our leader's plan has failed. Whatever that plan truly was. Yes, a pity."

  "His instructions were quite specific. To stand by to escort the Galactica back to home planet."

  "Yes. And which will be the prisoner, I wonder."

  "The orders were quite clear. They were to be our prisoners."

  Lucifer almost laughed aloud. These centurions, hampered by their weak first-brains, could be so dense. They forgot easily that Baltar was a human and not governed by the kind of strict codes that ruled the life of Cylons. They had no real understanding of human deviousness. If Baltar said the Galacticans were to be the prisoners, then a Cylon warrior believed him automatically. Sometimes Lucifer believed that Imperious Leader, even with his three-brain advantage, frequently underestimated Baltar. He had scorned the man as worthless, but the man had survived. Certainly, whatever else one thought, Baltar seemed to surmount any obstacle put in his path. It would be a mistake to underestimate him now, in spite of his apparently witless mission down on Kobol.

  Lucifer dismissed the centurion and leaned against the stiff, hard back of the throne. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to deprogram the obsequious overlay personality, with its stubborn outward loyalty toward Baltar. Time to abandon the man's plan and take advantage of the tempting military situation. The humans were lulled now, concerned with matters on Kobol. Many of their command personnel were doubtless down on the surface. Really, it was the perfect time for attack. And it was possible that a major military victory under Lucifer's command might influence Imperious Leader to take note of how a computer-class being could be an effective military leader. Since Baltar was already a traitor, treason against him was automatically canceled out. It was not really treason at all. Not at all.

  Still, a gnawing doubt held Lucifer back. Again, he wished Starbuck were still here. He needed somebody to talk to. Starbuck had insisted that he was not able to act on calculation, that he performed most of his heroic feats o
n impulse.

  Impulse had led Lucifer to considering treason. He admired Starbuck. To a computer programmed logically, impulse was attractive, a temptation beyond the norm. He could not resist it. He decided to launch the attack immediately, while the impulse for it still countermanded all the busy contradictory activity that was now enlivening his circuits.

  Entering the camp, Starbuck felt like a burglar, even though he consciously made loud sounds with his boots against hard surfaces and cleared his throat several times. Everybody was so busy at work that nobody took notice. Finally, he stole up behind Brie, who was bending quite attractively over a carton of supplies, tapped her on the shoulder, and said:

  "Hi, gorgeous. This the way to officers' club?"

  At first Brie was startled, her eyes growing bigger than a viper wing base, then she laughed delightedly and threw her arms around him.

  "You seem happy to see me," he whispered in her ear.

  "Ain't been anybody but Athena to holler at me since you disappeared, you—"

  "I can hardly wait for the next drill."

  Other men and women of the Galactica surface party dropped their tasks and ran to Starbuck. Soon a crowd had gathered around him, listening to the tale of his detour inside a base-star. He stopped talking when Athena broke through the ranks and hollered his name. She rushed to him, hugged him, and demurely kissed him on the cheek.

  "Ah," he said, "missed me, did you? Yes, guess you did."

  "Sure I did."

  "Sentimental."

  "Guess so. I don't kill bugs when I see them either."

  "I'm not sure I understand the implications of that."

  "And I'm not going to explain it to you. My brother wants to see you."

  Athena ordered the crowd to break up, then led Starbuck by the arm to Apollo's tent. The captain broke into a grin and ran to embrace Starbuck as soon as he saw him.